His fragility reached incredible extremes. When he walked along the street, each step made even the Scandinavians fear a spectacular fall. In time his parents showed signs of a greedy pragmatism that deserved the harshest criticism; they decided that Orest would go out only on Sundays, preceded by his Uncle Erick and followed by the servant Olaf, who passed his hat for the coins that sentimental souls thought they were obliged to pay for that show of gravitational danger. His fame grew.
But it is true that happiness is never perfect. Little by little, an irresistible love for those coins began to filter into Orest’s childish soul. His genuine passion for minted metal eventually caused his downfall and proved to be the reason for his strange end, as you will see in due course.
Barnum made him a professional. But Orest did not feel the artistic vocation, and the circus interested him only as a source of money. His aristocratic spirit, however, could not bear the smell of the lions or the fact that people pitied him. He said goodbye to Barnum.
At the age of nineteen, he measured seven feet, eleven inches. Then came a period of quiescence, and it was not until the age of twenty-five that he reached his full height of eight feet, one inch, which he maintained until his death. This is how the discovery was made. Invited to London by the gracious command of their British Majesties, he went to the English consulate in Stockholm to obtain a visa. The English consul, being the man he was, received him with no great show of surprise, dared to ask his height and weight, and doubted he was eight feet tall. When the measuring stick revealed that his height was eight feet, one inch, the consul made the serene gesture that means “I told you so.” Orest said nothing. He went to the window in silence and spent long moments bitterly contemplating the rough sea and calm blue sky.
From that time on, the curiosity of European monarchs increased his income. In a short while he became one of the richest giants on the Continent, and his fame reached even the Patagonians, the Yaquis, and the Ethiopians. In the magazine that Rubén Darío edited in Paris, you can see two or three photographs of Orest smiling beside the most celebrated personalities of the time — graphic documents that the great poet published on the tenth anniversary of the artist’s death in a homage as deserved as it was posthumous.
Suddenly his name disappeared from the newspapers.
But despite all the plotting and scheming to keep secret the causes that contributed to his unexpected end, we know today that he died tragically in Mexico during the Centennial Celebration, which he attended as an official guest. The causes were twenty-five fractures suffered when he bent down to pick up a gold coin (a “centennial,” as a matter of fact) which the obscure Chihuahuan, Silvestre Martín, henchman of Don Porfirio Díaz, threw at him in an outburst of vulgar patriotic enthusiasm.
I DON’T WANT TO DECEIVE YOU
The first part of the program did not go as planned. In the crowded auditorium an impatient, excited audience moved restlessly in their seats. At the center of the stage stood a microphone, from which an anguished humming occasionally could be heard.
Suddenly a metallic voice announced over the loudspeaker that the film’s actors, just arrived from France, would be on stage to say a few words and (this was not mentioned although it was the best part) to show themselves in the flesh. The master of ceremonies, a diligent bald man, a mixture of timidity and confidence, assumed a certain professional tone when he spoke that immediately revealed his lack of experience.
As if everything had not been arranged ahead of time, the female star showed great surprise when she was called from her box, but she soon came on stage in all her radiance and said thank you very much to wide applause. Then the male lead appeared and, after a brief silence in which he could not find anything better to say, shouted in bad Spanish “Viva México!” and received a tremendous ovation.
Then the supporting cast was introduced and, of course, a number of people who had nothing to do with anything, among them a short man who confessed proudly that he could imitate radio actors and animals and then proceeded to do so. Finally, as if they had unfortunately been overlooked, the producer of the film and his wife were presented to the audience.
The master of ceremonies introduced each person with intrepid praise, and requested applause for all of them. He was not very skilled, but he hid his ineptitude by extolling everyone and moving his arms frantically as he asked for the applause that the public was less and less willing to grant him.
“We also have with us,” he announced finally, “the wife of the producer, that great actress”—urgently he consulted a scrap of paper—“that great actress Señora Fuchier, who is going to say a few words and let’s give her a big hand!”
Eight or ten people in the boxes responded wearily to his feverish clapping.
As she approached the microphone, Señora Fuchier had an opportunity to show off her blonde beauty and her shining dress and her jewels. Uncertain and awkward, she turned a little knob nervously for several seconds until she managed to raise the microphone to mouth level; she gave a wry smile as if to say “Finally!” and the audience smiled with her in sympathy.
“My dear public, thank you very much,” she began. “First of all, I want to say that I’m not a great actress as my dear friend Señor, Señor…”—and she pointed at the master of ceremonies—“has just stated. I’m not even an actress. Of course I’d like to be one and give you frequent moments of happiness but, well, I think art is very difficult and frankly, well, I mean, I shudder at the very idea of being in front of a camera with the lights aimed like they were going to shoot me. I guess it feels like that. So really I don’t know why he insists I’m a great actress. Imagine, not just an actress but a great actress. I really wish it was true because in spite of everything, well, I feel a great attraction for the stage. At school, many years ago now, we had a group and put on some very pretty pastorales, you can just imagine, but I could never get over my shyness and as soon as I was in front of an audience I could feel my thoughts going I don’t know where and I would break into a sweat because I realized everybody was staring at me like I was naked and then I didn’t even know whether I was playing a shepherdess, a sheep, or Baby Jesus. You can imagine. When I forgot my lines, forgot what I was doing there, what I did was make up something and talk and talk about any old thing just so I wouldn’t stand there like an idiot and not say anything. Well that’s why I’m asking you not to think that a real, full-fledged artist is going to speak to you.”
Scattered applause and murmurs of impatience and approval could be heard in the auditorium. A thin man turned to his wife and whispered, “Well, what do you think of this one?”
“I just want to say how happy I am to be here with you tonight but between that and being a great actress, well, I mean, that’s far from the truth. I’ll say! If my husband Señor Fuchier didn’t run the company, well, I don’t think I’d even be here. Besides, when he insisted that I bring to life on the silver screen the character in Winds of Liberty that we’re going to see now, I remembered what happened at school and I said to myself, ‘Now what? Suppose you can’t?’ And the more he urged me with his constant ‘Go on, do it, in the movies you don’t have to know how to act,’ I took it as a remark about my lack of artistic talent, I mean, he didn’t believe in me and I never wanted to do it because I know how I am. As a matter of fact I really do like acting and sometimes when I’m alone at home I stand in front of the mirror and without anybody knowing because I’d be too embarrassed I try out a few of the pastorale parts just to stay in practice. I forget about everything, and I’m happy. But if somebody comes in and sees me reciting I pretend I’m combing my hair or trying to kill a fly. What I’d like to do most is comedy. It’s easier because if you run into a wall, well, I mean, the audience laughs and pays no attention. In drama it’s another story.”